


he was pointing at the moon (but i was looking at his hand)

by raisindeatre



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: F/M, Quirk: Melancholy, Spoilers For Episode: s03e16 The Southern Raiders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 22:47:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6773398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raisindeatre/pseuds/raisindeatre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>I don’t know the difference between not fighting and giving up.<em> She thinks that she knows now. Maybe </em>this.</em> Maybe <em>him.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	he was pointing at the moon (but i was looking at his hand)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a slightly alternative ending to the Southern Raiders (otherwise known as one of my favourite episodes of ATLA, and one of the pinnacles of all of human TV.) I've never written fic before, and never thought I would, but here I am. When Zutara calls, you answer.
> 
> Slight Richard Siken and Maggie Stiefvater references sprinkled throughout, and a blink-and-you'll-miss-it Daniel Handler one. I hope you like it!

She starts shaking the minute they leave, and for all that she pretends that it’s because of how cold it is up here on Appa – and it is cold, colder than she’d ever thought the Fire Nation could be – she knows it’s because of the fact that she can’t get Yon Rha out of her head – _please, spare me_ – and the fact that she _had_ , that she’d risen out of the waves and bent a man’s blood to her will and made daggers out of the rain and still – still – she’d been too weak to kill him.

 

She’s shaking so hard that Appa can feel it; he rumbles up at her, and she twines her fingers into his shaggy fur, hard. Her chest feels too tight, and her eyes are blurry, and it strikes her that maybe she shouldn’t be the one steering – but does it matter? Does any of it matter, anymore? Zuko is quiet behind her; he has been since she let Yon Rha go, and she wonders what he’s thinking. And then it’s too much, all of it is too much, her cheeks are wet and she needs to get out, she needs to leave. Presses her heels into Appa’s side. They descend.

 

* * *

 

Katara is crying in earnest when she gets off, the real, gasping kind that leaves you shuddering like something is trying to claw its way out of your chest. Zuko casts an alarmed glance at Appa, almost as if he wishes that the bison would do something, and any other time it might make her laugh.

 

“Katara,” he says quietly, and she wishes she could hate him again, wishes she could feel the anger she used to, but she can’t. She thinks of Yon Rha. She thinks of her mother’s eyes, of being weak, of being strong – _mommy, I’m scared_ – and she sinks to the ground, resting her forehead on her knees.

 

This should feel wrong. If she was ever going to fall apart, it should be with her friends, with Sokka, her brother, her north star, the only other person who might understand – _then you didn’t love her the way I did!_ – she remembers, and feels a wave of regret.

 

With Toph. _It’ll be okay, Sugar Queen_.

 

With Aang. _It’s easy to do nothing, but it’s hard to forgive_.

 

This should feel wrong. But when Zuko lowers himself to sit next to her, she realizes, dimly, that it feels exactly right. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, but lets her cry and cry in the quiet. They aren’t touching, but she can feel the warmth of his body.

 

 “Katara,” he says once she’s able to breathe again. Her head hurts, the way it does after you cry. Her throat is sore.

 

“What?” she snaps. “ _What_ , Zuko? I know, okay? You brought me all the way out here to do this, and I couldn’t, I couldn’t, I wasn’t strong enough – “

 

“No, Katara,” he rasps, and he tilts his head to catch her gaze. His eyes are the same colour as the sunset washing over them. “You did the right thing.”

 

She laughs, painfully. “Would you have said that if I _had_ killed him?”

 

He doesn’t look away, and it occurs to her that Zuko always seems awkward until he doesn’t. “Yes,” he admits softly, and just like that the rage is back.

 

“Then how do you _know_ ,” Katara demands, rising to her feet; he follows, and they are facing each other. “How do you know I did the right thing?”

 

 There is a pause. The air between them crackles. “I don’t,” he says finally, and Katara is furious. He was the one who brought this up. He was the one who brought her here – _what can I do to make it up to you?_ – and this admission is enough to sear her chest with anger. It feels better than crying. The water from a nearby creek rises up like a snake, and with a crack she sends it hurtling in Zuko’s direction. He doesn’t move – startled, maybe – and it sends him reeling backward.

 

He sits up and blinks at her, but still he doesn’t fight back, and she wants him to, needs him to. “Come on,” she cries. “Do something!” With every shout she sends water roaring towards him – waves, whips – but he doesn’t dodge, doesn’t even roll out of the way.

 

“I’m not going to fight you, Katara,” he calls, looking at her through wet hair, picking himself up again and again and again, and she screams. A wave forms under her feet and she surges forward, directly at him. Still he doesn’t move. A challenge. Or maybe a surrender.

 

They collide, somebody slips, and suddenly Katara is half-sitting, half-lying on Zuko’s chest. It rises and falls rapidly, his ribs shifting her up and down. Ice forms, and she binds his wrists to the floor, the way he once did with her to a tree, so long ago. He looks at her, eyes wide. He’s not looking at her with pity – she doesn’t think she couldn’t stand it if he was – but there is sadness in his gaze.

 

And then: “I’m sorry, Katara,” he says. His voice is low, but this close, it doesn’t need to be anything else – a whisper is loud as a shout, amidst the trickle of the water surrounding them. “I’m so sorry.”

 

Her hand curls into a fist, and Zuko, battle-trained to pick up the slightest movements, driven by his ruined eye to look that much harder with the other, turns his head. He sees, but when he turns back to look at her, there’s no defensiveness, no fear. He looks at her like he deserves whatever’s coming to him, the way Yon Rha didn’t, and that, more than anything, breaks Katara, finally.

 

“I don’t know anymore,” she says, voice hoarse. “I don’t know the difference between not fighting and giving up.”

 

Then the ice melts and Zuko sits up and she collapses into his chest, pressing her cheek into his wet shirt. His arms come up, tentatively, and he holds her lightly, a stark contrast to the fierce way he’d pulled her into him when he’d knocked her out of the way of the falling rocks at the Western Air Temple – was it only two days ago? Katara isn’t crying anymore – she doesn’t think she has any more tears left in her – but she is shaking, so hard she can feel Zuko’s hands tremble when they press against the small of her back. (It occurs to her to wonder, treacherously amidst her grief, if perhaps that isn’t the only reason they shake.) His heartbeat is strong under her cheek.

 

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he says quietly. “That was wrong. I just – “ He hesitates. “Maybe there is no right thing, Katara. Maybe there’s only what’s right for you. Maybe there’s only what’s right at the time, at that moment.”

 

_I thought you had changed!_

 

_I have changed._

 

   

Aang would disagree. He would tell her how proud he was – _Katara, you do have a choice, forgiveness_. He would look at her, eyes shining, and Katara wonders why even the thought of that is enough to make her feel tired. Then she thinks about what Zuko’s said, and the burden feels lighter. _Maybe there’s only what’s right for you_.

 

 She closes her eyes, just for a heartbeat. Was this what was right for her? She tries to imagine what her mother would say, tries to feel her ghost by her side.

 

What is a ghost, anyway? Something dead that seems to be alive. Something dead that doesn’t know it’s dead.

 

She looks at Zuko; in the deepening twilight his cheekbones are sharp, his eyes shadowed. He must mistake her silence for contempt because he laughs, suddenly, painful. “But what do I know?” he rasps. “I don’t know anything about being right.”

 

A memory, feather-light and painful, flashes through Katara’s mind, lightning-quick –

 

_It's just that for so long now, whenever I would imagine the face of the enemy, it was your face._

 

_My face. I see._

 

 “Yes, you do,” she says at last. What is a ghost? Something dead that refuses to be. Like anger. Like bitterness. Or, maybe, like forgiveness. Like love. “You came back.”

 

“Back,” he echoes, and she knows what he means. He’d never officially joined them; by all rights when he’d turned up at the Western Air Temple – _hello, Zuko here_ – it had been for the first time. But they both know better – they both know that in the green lights of the caverns beneath Ba Sing Se, an alliance had been formed. A promise had been made – _maybe I can heal it—it's a scar, it can't be healed_. A promise had been broken.

 

His eyes crinkle at the edges, and Katara marvels for a moment at the way that small motion softens his entire face; his sharp jaw, his jutting cheekbones. Even the marred flesh of his scar seems kinder. “Yes,” he says. “I did.”

 

* * *

 

“I don’t want to go,” she blurts out once they’re both on their feet. “Not back to everyone. Not yet. Can we just… stay here? Just for tonight?” Zuko studies her thoughtfully for a minute, and she thinks about elaborating further, about how she can’t see them yet, hear their approval when she’s not sure she deserves it, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t want him to know how desperate she feels, although it occurs to her that he would be the last person to judge her.

 

“Sure,” he says finally. “Maybe it’s for the best, anyway. Appa’s been flying nonstop for a day now – he should probably get some rest.”

 

“Oh, please,” she says without thinking. “Appa can handle that. We’ve flown him for days straight, back when you were still chasing us.” Immediately, she wants to flinch at the look on his face; shame, sorrow, hurt. Zuko’s never been any good at hiding his emotions; they play out over his features like light over water. In this regard, he is the exact opposite of his sister – Katara has nightmares, sometimes, about Azula and her sharp, porcelain face, her voice airy but spiky like a fly-eating plant.

 

“Well,” Zuko says after an awkward pause, and he tries for a smile. “I guess that means he deserves all the rest he can get now.” He gestures to his clothes. “I’m, um, going to get cleaned up. We should probably start a fire; it’s going to get cold pretty soon.” He leaves before she can say anything else.

 

Katara goes to collect some firewood – and her thoughts too; although she’s successful with the first venture and less so with the second. Her thoughts are slippery and fractured. It feels like catching fish, the way she’d tried to do, once, back at the beginning of everything, when waterbending had been just a game, and not a weapon.

 

When she finds Zuko again, though, he already has a fire going; leaning against Appa, one leg stretched out, the other drawn up to his chest, his arm around his knee. He looks up as she lets her firewood tumble into the flames; they hiss and spark. “I couldn’t find any food in Appa’s saddlebags,” he says. “I guess we forgot to bring any.” She’s not surprised; they’d both been so focused on their mission when they’d left. In any case, her hunger is overshadowed by the relief that sweeps over her when she realizes that he’s not angry.

 

“Damn,” she sighs as she lowers herself next to him.

 

“I know,” Zuko says. “I thought, maybe, we could go look for some.”

 

“I don’t think there are any markets open this time of night, Zuko. Besides, I don’t even know if there’s a town nearby.”

 

“No,” he says. “I meant, I don’t know. Like fruits? Berries? Stuff like that?”

 

She laughs a little, leaning against Appa; the bison rumbles comfortingly beneath her head. “Oh, we don’t want to do that,” she shudders. “Never trust strange plants, Zuko. It’s the quenchiest!” she quips, before realizing too late that he won’t have any idea what she’s talking about. He arches his good eyebrow at her, but there is a small, barely-there smile tugging at the side of his mouth. It’s not happiness – _I’m never happy_ – so much as it is relief, she realizes, relief that she’s laughing. The thought that he cares so much makes her feel warm all over.

 

“Well, they wouldn’t _be_ strange if you knew them,” he says. “Let’s just go find the ones you know are okay to eat.”

 

“What makes you think I even know which ones are okay to eat?” she retorts, and he shrugs.

 

“I don’t know. Wouldn’t you guys have eaten them before? You and Aang and Sokka and Toph, back when you were traveling?”

 

This time her laugh is loud enough that Appa shifts behind them. “We bought food from markets when we were traveling, Zuko. Bread! Cheese! Eggs! What did you think we did, foraged for food like squirrel-flies?” He ducks his head, and even in the light of the fire she can tell that the pink staining his cheeks is embarrassment.

 

“I don’t know,” he says sulkily. “Maybe!”

 

She shakes her head, smiling. “Well, sorry to disappoint, but I know as much about plants as you do, probably. I guess we’ll just have to wait until tomorrow.” The disappointment that crosses Zuko’s face is fleeting, but Katara sees it. “Poor you,” she says teasingly – and if it’s a little ironic, well, she can’t help it. She’s been hungry before – going a day without food is nothing. “Don’t Fire Nation royalty ever go hungry?”

 

He raises his chin, and for a minute she can see that yes, he _is_ royalty. Even now, outcast, a disgrace, a traitor – the set of his jaw and the tilt of his head reminds her that he is crown prince. A potentate. Of higher birth than she’ll ever be. “Hardly ever,” he replies, and the raw gold of his eyes makes her shiver. Then the light shifts and he’s just Zuko again, slumping back against the bison.

 

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” she says. “Hey, maybe that’s how we’ll defeat Azula. And your father! Just stop them from receiving their three-a-day. They’ll be begging for mercy before we know it.” She knows that her jokes are the worst, that she doesn’t have Sokka’s talent, and yes, Zuko does roll his eyes at her – but she’s gratified to see that he’s smiling now, a proper smile. The air between them is warmer than it was before. She shifts closer, just enough so that their shoulders brush.

 

“What about Appa, though?” Zuko says.

 

“Do you want to eat _him_?” Katara says, mock-horrified, and Zuko throws his head back and laughs for real. It’s a lovely sound, she thinks, all the nicer for the fact that he seems surprised by it, startled by this hoarse sound that escapes his throat.

 

“I mean,” he says. “Do you think he’s hungry?” They turn in unison to look at the sky bison, who blinks sleepily at them.

 

Katara shrugs. “I wouldn’t worry,” she says. “He knows which plants are okay to eat. Besides, he’s got enough fat to last a winter without food.” Zuko hums in assent and they turn back towards the fire.

 

“It’s nice, you know,” Katara says. “It’s sweet how much you care about Appa.”

 

“Well,” Zuko says, rubbing the back of his neck. She watches the line of his shoulders and collarbone shift into view in the firelight; watches as they disappear back into the neck of his shirt. It’s not the first time she’s seen them, of course – she’s supervised enough training sessions with him and Aang – but it never fails to amaze her that beneath his clothes, his muscles are moving the same way they do when he firebends, sliding under his skin, curving around his shoulders and back and lean arms. She blinks out of her reverie as he says, “I guess I owe him. We’re kind of friends. He was the first one to trust me back at the Western Air Temple, remember?”

 

Simultaneously, they freeze; she can feel his shoulder stiffen against hers. She knows that he meant it as a joke – the image of Appa licking Zuko from head to toe will always be a funny one – but unknowingly or not, he has summoned a memory, one that hurts both of them. _I was the first person who trusted you, remember! Back in Ba Sing Se!_ She looks at him out of the corner of her eye; he is staring into the fire.

 

She presses her shoulder against his, hard. “I remember,” she says quietly.

 

In the dark, Zuko’s voice is a banked fire; just as dry, just as warm. “I’m sorry about today, Katara. I wanted to give you closure, but instead I ended up hurting you.” He shakes his head, still not looking at her. “I seem to do that a lot – I just. I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s not your fault,” Katara replies, and she realizes with a shiver in her chest that it’s the truth. “It’s not your fault. It was never your fault.” The night seems to stop moving. Her heart is thrumming in her chest.

 

Katara reaches up to kiss his cheek as he turns to look at her, and so their first kiss is a collision; a constellation of teeth and lips and skin. She hesitates, wondering if she should pull away, but he brings his hand up to catch her jaw with a self-assuredness that would almost strike her as funny, if she wasn’t feeling so many other things at once. She marvels for a moment that this is _Zuko_ – Zuko, who is so awkward and stubborn and easily embarrassed – who is kissing her with an intensity that makes her heart stutter.

 

They turn towards each other, and her arms rise up to link behind his neck. She buries her hands in his hair. He runs one hand down her spine, pressing it into the small of her back. He feels so, so warm beneath her fingertips, and Katara isn’t sure if that is because he is a firebender, or if it’s simply because she hasn’t been this close to another person in such a long time. She isn’t sure she’s ever been this close to another person. Nobody has ever held her like this, she thinks, his lips soft under hers.

 

 _I don’t know the difference between not fighting and giving up_. She thinks that she knows now. Maybe _this_. Maybe _him_.

 

When they break apart, he rests her forehead against hers. This close, all she can see are his eyes; even his scar has disappeared into the shadows.

 

"Zuko," she whispers, and is not at all surprised to find that his name feels right on her tongue.

 

“It’s you,” he says hoarsely, and Katara will never know, never, that this is not a statement but a confession. She holds his gaze for as long as it takes their galloping heartbeats to slow.

 

* * *

   

She curls up against Appa’s side that night, facing away from him, and it seems like hours before Zuko breaks the silence. “I won’t hold you to it,” he says softly. “I know you didn’t mean it.”

 

She doesn’t know if she means it. She doesn’t know how much of the kiss was exhaustion and how much was gratitude and how much was the fact that Zuko makes her feel unsteady and grounded at the same time. Like he is her anchor. Like he is her mirror. _Through a glass, darkly_. Like he is the only person, here almost at the end of the war, who really understands her. They have chased each other from one side of the world to the other, in fire and ice and a thousand betrayals and absolutions. She doesn’t know how much of tonight was an aberration, or a dream, like something that could never have happened otherwise. She doesn’t know how much of tonight was inevitable. She doesn’t know if it’s true what she’s feeling, that this is where their paths had been headed all along.

 

What she does know is that Zuko will understand. So Katara turns and looks at him. It’s strange how familiar the planes of his face have become. She reaches out and takes hold of his hand, and the quiet relief on his features almost undoes her. “Goodnight, Zuko,” she says, and closes her eyes. They wait for the dawn. They wait for the comet. They wait for whatever comes next, and Katara is surprised to find that under the fear, the dread – there is a little spark of hope. 


End file.
